A Perfect Moment
by Dizzydodo
Summary: Bond proposes. Q refuses. Bond proposes again. Q refuses still. Bond thinks of buying the third ring- And then the tables turn.


Written for a prompt on AO3, and cross-posted there. :)

As always, comments and concrit are greatly appreciated! There are many more fics I want to write for these two.

Takes place pre-Skyfall

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The first time is perfect in James' memory:

Just after dinner at Amber in Hong Kong, the muted hum of conversation only slightly louder than the soft chords of music drifting through the air. Outside night has truly fallen and the lights of the city are a spectacle to behold. For once there is no pressing business to think of, he has dealt with it efficiently so as to save the majority of their holiday preparing for this moment alone. Not that M would at all approve of his appropriation of funds for personal use; the cost of the wine sloshing carelessly in his glass would be enough to send her into an apoplexy.

In time, she may forgive him, but Bond's thoughts are elsewhere. Across the table specifically, staring back at him with bright gray eyes, ever alert.

With good reason, he is sure. Q had only reluctantly accompanied him here, and much of his time had been spent tucked behind his computer screen, only glancing away to stare nervously out the windows of their suite. James has his own reasons for being wary of the Hong Kong nightlife, none of which have any place at the table this evening. Tonight, all that concerns him is they two and the weight of a ring in his pocket.

It is twenty-four karat white gold, inlaid with small paraiba tourmalines, marquise cut. There is nothing subtle in it, all of it tailored to extravagant excess, but it is beautiful, and Q- magpie that he is- has always had an eye for beauty he keeps carefully concealed.

"I sense a question." Q murmurs, finally sipping from his glass. His eyes flutter with pleasure, the quirk of a contented smile ghosting across his lips. They share a taste for the finer things in life, though Q is far more sparing in his indulgences.

He presses a seeking hand to his pocket, certain that he can feel the metal burning against his skin even through his jacket. He has always been a reckless man, has lost count of the number of times he has been bluntly told so- most frequently by this man sitting across from him. Tonight, though, he thinks his courage may desert him if he delays any longer. With a practiced motion he pulls the ring's box from his pocket- royal blue velvet with a silver clasp, no other ornamentation to adorn it.

Q's- No, 'Desmond's'- eyes widen slightly, taking on a calculating gleam Bond has seen directed at himself a time or two. Usually before an outburst of scathing, righteous indignation.

"Is this-" The tone is flat, disbelieving. His eyes flick to Bond's own, catching his gaze and refusing to free him even as Desmond reaches out to take the box in an elegant hand marred with tell-tale smudges of ink.

Desmond pries the box open cautiously, like a poisonous cobra might strike him if he moves too fast.

His eyes widen still more, and the box clicks shut again with startling finality. "James-"

"Marry me." It is half-question, half-demand, all foregone conclusion. They could spend the rest of their respective lifetimes searching and never find partners half so compatible as they are. Bond _knows_ that for this man he could forsake all other lovers- cleave to one, in the very biblical sense. He knows there is none other whom he could so easily spend his resting hours with, drowsing trustingly in another's company. There is, quite simply, no other creature alive that could be his perfect complement-

A snort of disbelief, an incredulous tilt of his brow. "Have you quite lost your mind?"

For the first time in years Bond is left speechless. This… this is not the response he expected; it hadn't even been in the realm of possibility.

"Of all the things I have done, _this_ makes you question my sanity?" When in doubt, drink. He empties his glass in a swallow, pinning Q with a demanding gaze. The evening is not over yet, and his methods of persuasion have been known to sway his lover a time or two.

"Well it's not really the right time, is it?" Desmond says this as though they are both playing a cosmic joke, as though he expects James to know the punch-line.

"Should I have booked an hour later?" The words are sharp and biting, laden with sarcasm.

Desmond refuses to rise to the bait, pushing the box slowly back across the table: "Take it back, James. Finish your wine and let's go upstairs."

There's a proposition he can lend his full support to. He makes short work of the remainder of the bottle, both of them just a little on the tipsy side.

Even now, still reeling over Q's refusal, he can't keep his hands off him. The elevator may as well be the devil's playground, and Q does not object. He finds the box pressed back into the pocket of his suit, clever hands playing across his shirt to leave lines of fire on the skin beneath. Whatever objections Desmond has, James is sure he can overcome them by morning.

He does not.

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The second time the ring is silver, with no stones to draw the eye away from its untarnished gleam. This time he has decided to stay true to form; they lie entangled in Egyptian cotton sheets, basking in each other's warmth and the afterglow of making love. A maudlin phrase, but the only one, James thinks, that could wholly describe what they have done.

He can feel the flutter of Desmond's heart just beneath his palm, pressed gently into a slim chest. The familiar sights of Desmond's home surround him, effortlessly elegant furnishings, everything kept scrupulously in its place. It is far from the spartan apartment he returns to when alone.

Desmond shifts, tucking himself nearer to James' warmth in a vain attempt to escape the winter chill seeping in through the window's curtains. Outside London is blanketed in a light dusting of snow; it is hardly worth remarking on, but Q has always been sensitive to the cold. He draws him nearer, reaching back with his free hand to fumble with the nightstand's drawer where he keeps his weapon-and the ring- tucked neatly away. Desmond rouses only slightly, flashing a curious frown.

Understanding dawns when he sees the box- red this time, copper clasp.

James can see the answer in his eyes before he has even asked the question, but it is a question that begs to be answered properly.

"Is it the right time, now?" His tone is dry as the Sahara, self-deprecating amusement at its finest.

"No, no it isn't." Desmond draws closer, as though the nearness of him should be enough to draw the sting of rejection.

Curiously Bond finds it is. For now. He still hasn't given up, he won't until he hears a 'yes'. When his ring sits on Desmond's finger so anyone who sees it will know precisely whom he belongs to, and exactly who they cross when they wrong him.

A bolt of inspiration strikes as he begins kissing his way up Q's neck, finding every tender spot where he can feel a racing pulse. "When do you suppose it will be?"

Desmond laughs lightly, impatiently ducking down to catch his lips before he catches his breath enough to answer: "I will be sure to tell you."

It is a non-answer, but Bond learns to content himself with it for the next four months until his thoughts begin to turn toward the third ring. He visits jewelers in London, Cape Town, Stuttgart; nothing catches his wandering eye. This third time must be the last; there is no room for error. Should the band be silver or gold? What shade? Engraved or plain? Precious stones or semi-precious? None at all?

Perhaps he would be better served stopping in at Q department and requesting a ring with a nasty surprise or two. But he has learned not to play games of oneupmanship there; inevitably Q outmaneuvers him. He is a field agent, after all, and knows how quickly the best laid plans of mice and men can go to hell. For Q it is always a pure game dictated by the unsullied logic of strategy.

He is just leaving the store when his phone goes off, shrill and piercing. Bond cannot say how, but he knows before he has even clicked 'answer' why the call has come in. Adrenaline floods his system, gut clenching with primal fear-

"Yes?"

"Bond, there's been an incident-"

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007 races through the halls of the dilapidated building, lit by whatever frail sunlight manages to seep through the boarded windows. They are miles from Q's last reported location, and if it is the last thing he does Bond swears he will see the man implanted with the same trackers that flow through his veins. They will not be so easily disabled.

The sharp _pop_ of gunfire brings him back to himself, grounding him in the present. He ducks behind a pillar, the hard floor is unforgiving on his bad knee, but he hardly notices the ache as he returns fire. Two bullets are enough to bring the bastard down, just another corpse he hurdles as he races once more for the staircase.

How many times has he warned Q to be careful? To damn well stay in his apartment after nightfall or at least go armed, to actually use the peephole instead of opening the door to any Jane or Jack that knocks? He spends too long at his computers, fending off attacks that never leave any visible scars or hurt more than his pride. It has begun to go to his head.

They are arrogant bastards, both of them. But is it truly arrogance since they are the best at their craft?

Philosophy can wait until later- he clears the staircase, stretching to see past the blind curve before he takes it three stairs at a time. Q will be on the upper levels; he knows the strategic importance of holding the high ground, and Bond does not believe for a moment he would have languished without resistance in his captor's care no matter that training said he should. Q cares for the rule book about as much as he, which is to say not at all.

James is panting with an unholy mixture of exertion and exhilaration by the time he reaches the top floor. There are two corpses on the last landing, several more on the floors he has cleared. Whatever this operation was meant to be, it was poorly planned and well-funded from the start. He might be more sympathetic if he had found his fiancé by now-

"Bond! I've taken over your channel, pardon the intrusion, but-" The crackle of static in his ear-piece catches his attention; he would know that voice anywhere, even pitched high and thin with fear.

"Where the hell are you?" For once he will be pleased to listen to Q's overly technical explanation, but not until they are safely back at HQ, perhaps with a bottle of champagne or something stronger to share between them.

"Ahead ten meters. Take a left. I'm in 517B, watch for-" " He obeys with alacrity, unheeding of Q's warning.

Another corridor stretches out before him, doors lining the hall on either side, nameplates obscured by grime. The only one that interests him is just ahead on the right- 517B.

He scrabbles with the knob, grows impatient when it doesn't yield and smashes the damned door down; they won't be staying long, anyway.

The room is empty: a desk of warped wood sits in the center, scuffed with use but dusty and neglected now. A dilapidated chair lists to the side, legs cracked and uneven. On the floor before it he sees discarded cuffs and nearly laughs aloud with relief. He knows firsthand how swiftly Q can slip out of them; the bonds have not been made that can hold him for long, the combined efforts of MI6 and 007 himself have made certain of it. And it had been a _pleasure_ to teach him in more ways than one.

"James." It takes him a moment to register that the breathy voice has not come from his ear-piece. "Thank God, the cavalry has arrived."

The wall _shifts_ slightly at ground level, and a thoroughly disheveled Q crawls out, tie askew and shirt so smudged with dust there will be nothing for it but to toss it out. Cobwebs twine through his hair, and Bond can't resist the impulse to lean down and pluck them out, their surroundings temporarily forgotten as he takes Q's face in his hands, brushing his thumbs along bruised cheekbones. His first order of business is to see Q reports back to his division, his second is to take Desmond home and tuck him in with a laptop and a cup of tea, his third is to find whomever is responsible for this travesty and make them _plead_ for forgiveness on their knees.

"I'm all right, I'm fine." Q murmurs, recognizing the wicked gleam in his lover's eyes. He begins to pull away, fingers straining to reach the phone whose screen Bond can see glowing in the crawlspace. He will have to add 'pickpocket' to the list of skills he had never expected Desmond to master. Bond catches his chin, tilts his face up to press a tender kiss to each yellowing bruise, ignoring the tickle of lashes against his skin just as Q ignores the rub of whiskers.

"My God, marry me." Desmond breathes, leaning into him exhaustedly. "Marry me."

James scrounges up the last bit of gentlemanly conduct he can find within him and ignores the words, gathering Q up and lifting him to his feet. Slowly, excruciatingly aware of how very fragile Q feels beneath his hand, he guides him out of the room and down the corridor. The tap of their shoes in the only sound in the building, they are the only two breathing here now. He goes the back ways, wanting to spare Q the sight of the corpses that still litter the floors beneath them. Let only one of them keep the memory of that, and he with no remorse to spare for it.

Q doesn't even lift his head until they are outside, squinting in the bright summer sunlight. Bond watches all around them, guiding Q into the shadowed alley and down to the car. It is a token of his distraction that Q doesn't even chide him for the new scratches in the paint or the dent in the hood suspiciously large enough to be an adult male.

"Are we going home?" Q asks, hopeful, but knowing what Bond's answer must be: reports need to be made, Q branch reassured. It will be hours yet before he can go home-

To hell with it.

"Yes." James growls, shifting the car into gear and tearing out of the alley with a skid that would have had Q squawking with indignation on any other day. Today he only laughs, delight and relief, nervousness and guilt all equally intertwined.

He will call in while Q takes an impossibly hot shower to clear up any misunderstandings. They'll report in when they are presentable and not a moment before- the day has been trying enough already without having to stand for a dressing down in rumpled, dirty clothes. And this is not an incident either one of them are likely to hear the end of any time soon.

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It is fully three hours later before they can be bothered to dress. Shirt, tie, and jacket for him. A rumpled button-down and cardigan for Q. England could be swallowed up by the sea tomorrow and still Desmond could greet the day with perfect equanimity so long as he had his soft, familiar cardigan.

Bond follows him out the kitchen, wordlessly filling the kettle as Q scrounges through the cupboard for tea. A dark, bitter brew today, the perfect reflection of what is sure to be M's mood.

Desmond leans against the counter, fixing James with a serious gaze, no tinge of mischief or humor to be found. "James Bond, would you do me the honor of marrying me?"

His first reaction is laughter, until he notices that Q still isn't smiling. He has him fixed with the eyes of a hawk and appears to be awaiting something more than amusement. Not an answer, surely.

He doesn't have a ring, there is no atmosphere- three empty magazines are stored in James' personal effects, Q's face is still mottled after someone's fist taking serious exception to his charming smile, Bond's body aches with injuries that haven't yet made themselves known and the damn kettle is whistling loud enough to wake the dead. He rescues it from the stove, flicking it off with a thoughtless gesture.

"I thought we might pick our rings together, if you like. Sugar?" Q murmurs as he steps over to pour the tea, glasses fogging with steam. Bond wants nothing more than to slide them from his face and kiss him again, right here. But Q's question demands an answer, and he would be a fool to let this opportunity slip through his fingers.

"Yes."

He reaches for the tongs but James stays his hand to twine their fingers together, turning him about and pressing him against the counter. "Yes, I will marry you, madman."

Desmond smiles, wide and bright and thoroughly unconcerned with the tea. "Well, there's a relief. I think M might banish me to Siberia if I don't make an honest man of you soon."

"Or at least a _slightly_ more honest one." James agrees, pressing a light kiss into that dimple that has always fascinated him. "Why now?"

The question is plaguing him; he doesn't want this to be a decision Q regrets come morning- or worse yet, several years down the line when he is once again trapped in his domain, cursing his husband a blue streak for deviating from a plan.

"Because the moment is right, of course."

James doesn't even pretend to understand what he is getting at, all that matters is Q's hands fisting in his shirt, drawing him near enough to seal it with a kiss. He lifts, ignoring the burn of exhaustion in his shoulders, pressing Q back up onto the counter the better to stand between his legs.

"Mr. Bond, we are going to be very, very late."

"To hell with it, Mr. Bond."

Desmond pulls away fast enough to leave him dizzy and more than a little peevish. "I proposed. I suppose that means you ought to take my name, don't you agree?"

James bites back a growl of annoyance, yanking the cardigan off without ceremony, tearing open the button-down so that the buttons scatter around them.

"Lovely. I don't suppose you intend to sew those back on yourself-"

Bond takes his words along with the rest of his breath; whatever contentions there are between them can be resolved later.

Nothing else matters at this moment, and Q is right: It's perfect.


End file.
